A Lighthearted Narrative
by kurushi
Summary: When you know a writer long enough, you can see hints of their hearts in their prose. Yomiko has set aside the afternoon to read a very specific light novel. Trashy and sappy, it's one that Nenene would happily deny having ever written.


_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

_Author's Notes: Written as a treat for gamerfic as part of the 2010 Yuletide fic exchange. Thanks to gamerifc for the prompt, leaper182 for the proofreading, and the mods for all the work they put into Yuletide every year!_

**A Light-hearted Narrative**

Yomiko Readman sighed and pressed the well-worn light novel to her chest. It was one of the copies she'd had for years – not a signed one of course, but a dilapidated secondhand copy she kept for taking on trips to the beach and reading on the train or bus – and it had the curled edges and cracked spine of a book well loved.

She knew that Nenene would flick her on the nose and tell her off if she saw her reading it. That only made it all the more wonderful. That heady tingle that you felt when you first fell in love with a character or book still thrilled through Yomiko's breast when she reached the chapter where the hero and heroine finally confessed their love to each other.

It was a trashy light novel, a teen romance written by a teen writer. Nenene hated her early books because they contained her most rushed and unedited work. All hormonal ideas of romance and carbon-copied trends that had seemed like good ideas at the time but in retrospect were dated and cheesy. At least, that's what Nenene said, and Yomiko couldn't really argue that they weren't trashy teen romances. They were.

But _that's_ what was so great about them. The sloppy grammar, the stilted flow of the prose, the awkwardness in some situations, the blind spots in the descriptions of social situations that the young writer had never been in herself. They were all so wonderful. They were raw. Now that Nenene was an accomplished writer creating profound and meaningful books, her language was evolved and refined and all her words were carefully planned and revised. So premeditated. You couldn't see through the pages and into Nenene's brain the way that you could in her old stuff.

In the light novels, you could. It was like bypassing all the structure of society and the weight of memory, being able to simply commune in that intimate personal way you could only find when you read. Taking the ideas that someone else had poured from their minds onto the page, and holding them for that moment inside your own. Closer than any touch could get you to someone.

In that particular light novel, there was going to be a kiss. On the very next page, even, and a first kiss at that. Written from Nenene's first experience of a kiss, which had been so honest and clumsy that it had taken Yomiko entirely by surprise. She didn't think that she'd been kissed on the lips by anyone as earnest or dedicated since. Perhaps someone else may have been upset to think that the best kiss they'd had in years had come from someone who cared more about the book she was writing than about the kiss itself, but for Yomiko that was the best part of it. She couldn't honestly say that being a substitute teacher getting molested by her student was a good experience. But to have a spontaneous kiss like that elevated into the perfection of the written word, shared with the entire world and loved... that beauty transcended any of the weirdness.

She rolled over on her bed, displacing the pile of books she'd read that day, and propped the book up on her pillow, pillowed her chin on her crossed arms. She wanted to be up close and intimate with this next page. No interruptions, no chance of anything distracting her from it.

The door clicked open somewhere behind her. She could hear the distinct swearing, grumbling gruff progress of Nenene coming up the hallway. She didn't make it to the good bit before Nenene was in the room and pushing through the stacks towards her. She flopped down on the bed beside Yomiko, letting up a cloud of dust.

She leaned over Yomiko's back, her breasts squished up and close. Yomiko felt more distant from her than ever. She'd wanted to spend the afternoon immersed in the exposed heart of Nenene's young self, in that book, and now she'd get the real person but not really. Not real at all. Only the gruff exterior and the wistful smile that showed all the time and distance that had come between them over half a lifetime.

'Don't read that crap, I'm embarrassed to have my name on it.'

Yomiko fought to keep hold of the book, but Nenene had a strong grip and was really, really stubborn. Also she knew just where to poke and tickle. With an undignified gasping squeal, Yomiko was curling in to protect her poor sides and Nenene was flinging the book somewhere into the far corners of the room. It landed with a thump and was followed by that slippery rasping sound you can only really hear when a pile of books with shiny dust-covers falls over.

'B-but that's why I like it. You're never that open any more, you know? I miss reading those parts of you sometimes.'

Nenene gave Yomiko a blank look that said it all, really. Nenene communicated best through writing, and Yomiko only really understood people through books. They'd never needed to communicate in the other direction before. Then again, they'd never really been much more to each other than devoted writer and reader, and _that_ was more Yomiko's fault than anyone else's. Was it unfair of her to regret some of the changes between them, when she'd been the one to run off, abandon everything? It probably was.

Nenene rubbed a tired hand over her eyebrows. 'Oh. Huh. Well then, I guess I've got to write some more. I'm not sure I'd feel up to publishing it, you know. But I could do something just for you.' She rolled away from Yomiko, flopped onto her back on the bed. Together they stared up at the ceiling and watched dust motes dance in the late afternoon sunlight.

'That would be lovely.'

Yomiko knew she was blushing, and when she felt Nenene's hand slip into hers it felt as soft as paper brushing against her fingers.


End file.
